Certainty
by Mrs. Elizabeth Gibbs
Summary: Of few things did she feel truly certain: the wind in her hair, the ground below her feet, the sun on her face. But the arm at her waist, no matter the length of time it had remained there, she was still not sure she could be certain of. Zibbs, one-shot.


A/N: This is a new and rather unusual pairing for me; I'm very much a Jibbs fan. But, thanks to Zivacentric, I have learned to embrace this couple- I even worked up the courage to write a one-shot for them! :) I'd love any and all feedback on this story!

I'm having this take place mid-season seven- before CI-Ray came into the picture.

Major thanks to Zivacentric for the beta! :) You're fantastic, I never would have finished this without you!

Disclaimer: I own only the plot idea.

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><p>Of few things did she feel truly certain: the wind in her hair, the ground below her feet, the sun on her face. But the arm at her waist, no matter the length of time it had remained there…she was still not sure she could be certain of that.<p>

The wind would always blow, she knew that. Whether she was standing by the sea or climbing a mountain, the wind would always be moving her - sometimes forward, sometimes back, but it would blow and it would change. Of that, she was certain.

The ground would always remain; whether she was in Washington or Israel, the soil she touched was firm and true, always beneath her feet.

And the sun, its golden warmth, touched her tanned skin and warmed her to the core, turning the corners of her mouth upwards ever-so-slightly as she hummed in the afternoon sun.

And there was, indeed, an arm slung around her waist, belonging to a man that had changed her life drastically.

But she still found reasons to doubt.

Ziva David stood at the top of the mountain they'd hiked, taking in the breath-taking view of the New York landscape. They'd taken a long weekend, and after driving to the middle of the Empire State, they'd spent the past two days camping and sharing a quiet weekend together.

She glanced at her lover, and she softened as she studied him.

His hair was silver, the color of a moonbeam, was darkened at the neck with sweat, evidence of their hike. His cobalt eyes took in the picturesque scene below their feet, and for this snapshot of time, a few of his lines had disappeared, and he looked young and happy.

Ziva knew she loved Leroy Jethro Gibbs- and she'd known that for quite a while now.

Since she had come back from Israel after Jenny's death, she had known.

And it had only taken three months after her return for him to take the step forward they both needed. And they'd taken slow steps, easing into a relationship, and they had done well, been happy, even if they'd kept it a secret from the team, Abby, and Ducky.

That was until Michael Rivkin was killed, and Gibbs left her in Israel. She hadn't been sleeping with Michael, but Tony's suspicions had reached a boiling point. And Michael had just needed help- not death.

She'd watched the plane take off with a broken heart- and had promised herself she would erase Gibbs from her heart and never think of him again.

But he had rescued her in Somalia- in more ways than he knew. Thoughts of him, and the brief snatch of happiness they'd had had kept her alive- had given her something to cling to, to remember, so that she did not give up. Thoughts that had been essential to her survival.

But she still felt so unsure at times.

How could she ever be certain he loved her when he'd had four wives, lost a wife and daughter, and been left in Paris by Jenny, leaving him bitter to love? How could she believe his words when he was famous for twisting the truth and for keeping the deepest parts of himself hidden … even from her sometimes?

Her heart ached as her whiskey-brown eyes traced over his face, examining features that were already etched in her memory. He caught her staring, and turned to look at her, a half-smile gracing his lips before he stopped, the smile becoming a frown.

"Ziva?" he asked, concern shadowing his voice as he turned fully to her, studying her expression.

"Yes?" she asked, trying to avoid the issue, but he wasn't giving up.

"What's wrong?" he asked, his voice soft, his blue eyes two warm pools. She shook her head, turning her face away, but he stopped her. Cupping her cheek, he turned her back to face him, running his thumb over her cheekbone. "Tell me, Ziver."

"I do not want to," she whispered, and his jaw nearly dropped in shock when he discovered the tears glistening in the corners of her beautiful brown eyes.

"Zi," Jethro said, but then stopped, brushing away the tears. "You can tell me anything, you know that."

"I do not want to hurt you," was Ziva's soft response, and he swallowed, tugging her into a hug. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, his lips brushing the raven strands of hair softly.

"You won't hurt me, Ziva," he said into her hair, holding her close, the serenity of their surrounding suddenly suffocating. "You know how much I care about you."

But words that were meant to comfort seemed to do the opposite; she stiffened, stepping away from him and shaking her head, wiping away the tears that had managed to escape her barriers.

"That is all I ever hear," she said, and confusion struck him. What on earth was she taking about? "You care, you care, you care. That is all!"

"Well, what else do you want-"

"Love!" Ziva cried, and everything fell silent; even nature made not a sound. "I have said the words to you- unprompted- and I have received nothing in return, not a thing!"

"Ziva, you know I-"

"But I do not!" she exclaimed, shaking her head. "How would I know how you truly feel? How can I be certain that I am truly what you want? I have had no confirmation, no certainty from you. And I cannot live like that anymore. I want something solid, and strong- something without question."

Ziva's milk chocolate-colored eyes pleaded with him to answer her, and he swallowed, his heart breaking at how fragile she looked in that moment. He reached for her, but she stepped out of reach, folding her arms over her chest and shaking her head, her spine ramrod-straight.

"No. I want to hear what you have to say, Jethro. Not feel what you want me to hear," she said, and he swallowed again, realizing just how serious she was.

"Ziva, you know I care about you," he started, and she began to protest, but he held up one finger, asking her to let him continue. She stopped, and after a moment she nodded, allowing him to speak again. "And yeah- it hurts to know you question my feelings for you. But I know that I haven't given you the stable words you need to hear- and that's my fault."

She swallowed, and her hands clenched slightly, betraying her distress- she hadn't wanted to hurt him, even though she had.

"You are everything I've wanted for a long time- beautiful, confident, sexy, intelligent. You make me happier than I ever expected to be again," Jethro continued, watching the slight blush creep over the tanned cheeks of the Israeli-almost-turned-American citizen. "And I love you, Ziva David."

It took a moment for the words to register, and then she leapt at him, wrapping her arms around him as her lips sought him, reassurance in their kiss. He held her close as one of his hands threaded into her heavy curtain of dark hair, the other pressed into her lower back, holding her against him.

She was warm and soft and beautiful, and it killed him that it had taken him so long to tell her what he'd been feeling for a long time. Her lips tasted like trail mix and grape Powerade, and the musky smell of sweat lingered as her body pressed closer to his.

"You taste like coffee," she moaned against his mouth, pulling back, her brown eyes darkened to the color of cocoa, her face flushed.

"You taste like almonds," he replied, his voice low and roughened, and she shivered deliciously against him, her hands resting on his shoulders as she continued to press closer to him. "And grape Powerade."

"It is my weakness," she whispered, her teeth nipping his neck as she trailed kisses down from his jaw, and he fought the groan she elicited. "I do not even care that it turns my tongue purple."

"Your tongue is purple?" he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to her ear, his hands resting low on her hips. She looked up, brown eyes glittering mischievously, and nodded slowly.

"It is my favorite part of the drink," she replied, licking her lips so that he just saw the purple tip of her normally bubblegum-pink tongue.

"Does a purple tongue have special powers?" he asked, his thumbs rubbing patterns into her hipbones that were exposed as the dark blue t-shirt rode up to expose perfect, tanned skin.

"I do not know," she answered, her face level with his once again, her warm breath flowing over his lips, teasing him mercilessly. "Do you think we should find out…?"

"Sounds good to me," he replied against her lips, kissing her again, savoring the taste of her mouth, the feel of her tongue against his. His arms were strong, he was supportive, and he loved her.

And at last, there on the summit of Blue Mountain in New York with the sun shining and the wind blowing and the earth firm beneath her feet, Ziva David was also certain of the arm that held her waist.


End file.
